this body is yours,
by harpenduor
Summary: It didn't start with a kiss - but come to think of it, it didn't end with one either. A tale of a sometimes complicated, largely innate, frequently difficult, yet intrinsically indestructible friendship. Modern AU.


_a/n: so, here's to the angst that does get better. I hope you like it. Quick soundtrack rec: mess is mine, from afar, wasted time, fire and the flood - Vance Joy. Gravity - Coldplay. Start a riot - banners_

* * *

 _this body is yours,_

 **part I –** _all roads lead me here_

* * *

 _"And still to come,  
The worst part and you know it,  
There is a numbness,  
In your heart and it's growing."_

\- The comet appears, The Shins

* * *

She couldn't drown his rasping voice from her mind.

The minute she'd heard the other line crack- the silence on his end indicating he'd hung up- she'd got dressed. Throwing on whatever clothes were nearest to her, she forgot her phone in her haste and left it lying on her un-made bed. She was down the stairs and out the house before the thought of donning a jumper had even entered her mind, making her way hastily through the gates and across several fields before the dirt track petered off into the edge of the quiet and darkened village. The lack of street lamps disorientated her, in the dark and the cold it was only the hoarse tones of his vacant sobs from the other end of the phone that she heard, ringing in her ears.

( _Mary… I … I can't…  
Slow down. What's going on?  
I… I just… I can't do this  
Matthew, where are you? Are you alright? Is anyone with you?_

There was a long silence

 _Mary, my dad is dead_ )

She couldn't think. Her legs had given way beneath her and she'd slumped heavily to the ground with a sickening thud that hadn't quite reached her deaf ears. She'd struggled up limply, as fast paced as her shuddering legs could manage, and pushed the hard lump down in her throat with a morbid determination. She didn't allow herself time to cry, collecting every effort she could muster into stirring her shocked and strained heart to forced herself into movement.

Arriving at his doorstep at such a detached an unamiable time was not an unfamiliar experience, but never before had the feeling brought such a destructive gravity to it. It was torture, to know that this was a heartbreak she had no capacity to console and no ability to change. This was the unimaginable, and she fervently hoped her recent habit of ending up at his house in the early hours before break of dawn would not have need to continue. Only last time it had been her with the problem- and one that could never have come close to parring with the devastating numbness consuming Matthew.

The man that came to the door was one she had no recollection of meeting. His eyes were stung red, a long and heavily stance that looked as though he was weighted down from the shoulders. He looked her up and down, his lightly scuffed beard being the only slight on his countenance that didn't resemble Isobel in some way, and his look gave objection to her torrid and untimely appearance.

"I'm very sorry, but the family do not wish to see anyone at the moment," he said, voice scratchy and burdened with grief. "I'm Edward, Isobel's brother, so if you'd like to leave a message…"

Mary was taken slightly aback by the Australian accent laced in his voice, certain Isobel's family were as British as they came, but a sudden and gripping nostalgia hit her and forced her mind temporarily back to a distant memory of a small and timid blonde boy with bright and frightened blue eyes, speaking to an air stewardess on a plane.

 _"Where have you come from sweetheart?"_

 _"I was staying with my Uncle Edward in Melbourne."_

It couldn't have been. Could it? And yet the gentle countenance, soft voice and beautiful eyes of the boy seemed so familiar.

 _Matthew._

 _How had she not seen it before?_

"I'm Matthew's friend," she said quickly. She didn't want to be turned away, not after hearing his hoarse and painful voice over the phone.

She must have looked rather odd, sleep deprived and tense and yet, since she'd spoken, he didn't seem to question her honesty or person, only her presence.

Edward looked at her and for a second she though that he would turn her away with another coarse objection, so she spoke and was surprised at the voice that came out of her mouth as it was much more confident than she felt.

"Does Isobel need anything?" She asked, the pang in her chest at the omission of Reginald's name made her bite her lip. She didn't wish to nestle in on their grief, the last thing they needed was to be burdened with a guest in the house, but she felt that, for some reason or another, they might as well be family. She only then really realised how odd the feeling was, given that, despite the name, they really weren't any relation to her at all.

His voice wasn't steady or confident at all. "I don't think so, in the realms of what anyone can get her anyway. It's Mary, right?"

Mary nodded.

Edward looked once again like he was about to turn her away- reasserting that the family did not want visitors in this time - and she couldn't say she'd blame him in the slightest, but there was no way she'd let him do it. She was determined, and she needed to be with Matthew right now, far more than she needed to be anywhere else.

"Matthew called me." She said quickly, "I just want to..." she broke off.

Edward gave her a forlorn and insipid smile that gave light to how desolate he was more than anything else, and stepped aside, ushering her out of the cold and taking her jacket to hang up.

She offered him a hasty thank you and they didn't speak again because she took the stairs two at a time, knowing exactly where Matthew was.

His bedroom was in the attic and she'd been inside it a thousand times previously, yet she'd never felt so nervous at the prospect before.

Once she was up the last flight of stairs she knocked gently and waited, pressing her forehead languidly to the wood. When there was no reply, she opened the door with a cautious apprehension, stepping in slowly and closing the door behind her.

Matthew was curled on the floor, squashed in a small space between his wardrobe and desk. His phone lay discarded at his feet and she wondered briefly if he'd called anyone else. His blinds were open despite the dark night outside the windows and the lights were still off, even though his eyes were open and bloodshot and raw.

She walked slowly over to his side and crouched before him, placing her hands on his knees for a second before swinging her body round to take a seat next to him.

She clasped his hands with both of hers and felt her heart break as he gasped and stared hard at his knees.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, jaw trembling. "I shouldn't have called you so late…"

"I'm glad you called." She said simply, squeezing his hands.

"You shouldn't have come…"

"I wanted to." She whispered.

When she looked back at him she saw that the corners of his eyes were leaking and he'd dropped his head down to hide his tears. She pulled him against her so his head was resting on her shoulder and her own face screwed up with grief but she kept her sobs contrastingly silent. She had to be there for him. If she said anything, he'd hear the crack in her voice and she knew she couldn't concern him with herself now because whatever she was feeling, he was feeling it infinitely more intensely and it was infinitely more shattering.

Eventually she pulled them both up, and managed to get him to sit irresponsive on the edge of his bed. She pulled out a pair of pyjamas from his drawer and gently placed them in his lap. While he was in the bathroom, she closed his blinds and put his bedsheets on- she didn't know why there weren't any on already but it was a pointless question so she didn't pursue it.

He stood in his checked pyjamas loosely in the doorway, not really knowing what to do with himself until Mary wrapped her arms around him once more and guided him over to his bed. His breath smelt minty, like toothpaste, and he was warm and so was she and he was glad she reminded him to change because he felt eminently more comfortable now he was not in jeans. Her hair smelt sweet and homely and he buried his face in the scent, his forehead pressed against her shoulder.

"I wish it had been me." He mumbled. "Father would know what to do. He'd know how to comfort Mother. I'm just so useless."

Mary felt her eyes burn and she gripped her arms around his shoulders more tightly. She wanted to tell him how much he meant to his mother, his friends, his family, and her. But she didn't think she could express it in a way that justified how she felt, so she didn't.

"No," she whispered instead. "You're not useless." She stoked a hand over his hair. "Don't say you wish it had been you. Don't say that. Don't wish yourself away, Matthew."

When they collapsed onto the bed, she moved from next to him, saying that she should go-that they didn't need some random girl nestling in on their grief.

"Don't go. Please don't go."

He needed her.

Even if he hadn't asked her to stay, she was not sure that she would have been capable of leaving him in that state. Instead, she sat, curled, against his headboard and pillows, stroking through his blonde hair with her fingers as he lay with his head in her lap, sobbing into her thigh.

When he finally fell asleep, she extricated her limbs from his and changed out of her clothes, hoping he wouldn't mind that she went through his drawer and put on a pair of his boxers and a t-shirt before crawling back into his bed and holding him tightly.

One day, she'd tell him, she decided. It would make him smile. That their first meeting hadn't really been their first meeting at all, and they'd known each other for much longer than she'd known yesterday. Much longer than he knew today.

She thought back to the start. The proper start.

* * *

It didn't start with a kiss. But come to think of it, it didn't end with one either.

It started with two children on a plane from Melbourne to Heathrow without their parents. It started with his fear of flying and her snap decision to take hold of his shaking hand. It started when he squeezed his eyes shut in terror, the cabin rattled and the engine rumbled and his heart thumped dangerously loudly inside his ribs. It started when they were forced back in their seats, when their speed mounted impossibly and the noise of the plane as it shot into the air assaulted his ears. It started when he gripped the armrests harshly, his knuckles white with fear, certain that this was it- the end. It started when she placed her hand over his and locked their fingers together.

Well, it _kind of_ did.

The fact was, that was eight years ago. And when they met again, aged fourteen, they hadn't got off to the best start. Or second start, as it were.

The second start, started with their fourth-year classroom.

Although the room's walls were bare, the windows were large and inviting, the view of the rolling Yorkshire countryside beyond them being enticing and all too picturesque to ignore.

Everyone wanted a window seat, to sit in the unsubdued light of the morning and all the way through to the afternoon per chance to day dream; only that year, the last window spot- the best one at the back- was given to the new boy.

Matthew Crawley. Who'd just moved from Manchester.

He'd walked in like a lost puppy, timetable in hand, looking rather sheepish in trepidation. And, of course, the messy blonde hair and the bright blue eyes had turned everyone's heads- hers including. None of this had bothered her. She had been seated in the seat directly in front of him and, at first, he'd been quiet and unassuming, so that hadn't bothered her either. Things were fine.

Which brought them back to the classroom.

Outside, the sky was blue, beside a few strands of stratus that trailed like the tail of aeroplanes. Whomever had painted the walls inside must have had a bypass on imagination and a reluctance for anything that might convey the slightest happiness into an atmosphere of education. However, it only made it easier for Mary to gaze out of the window and day dream to her hearts content. It was easy to do so and didn't provoke much consequence when she ignored lessons or explanations, she was the best in the class after all.

Until the arrival of Matthew Crawley.

Within the week, he had given her a run for her money in all the lessons they had taken part in and this, being no longer the best but instead top-equal, was not only something that Mary loathed, but also that she was completely unaccustomed to. He was fluent in French, German, Spanish and Latin, he was an excellent sportsman, mathematician, historian, geographer, scientist, logician, and philosopher- practically an all-round genius. It was frustrating to say the least. What was the most frustrating, the thing that enraged her the most, beyond all else, was that he was nice.

Since his arrival, she'd had to pay attention in class to make sure she maintained her spot as the best in the class, which made her acquirement of a beloved window seat nearly utterly pointless.

Their third start, was one they agreed on. After months of continuous competition, frequent jibes, and unbridled insults, an incident involving an unexpected explosion in the science lab led to an agreed truce and started a mutual friendship.

The lights were suddenly more harsh in their glare. She was acutely aware of how many people there were around her, brushing against her and talking loudly with their blaring voices that rang horribly in her ears. Someone knocked her hard against the shoulder as they walked past and another few people were so horribly close to her that she felt her vision spinning and didn't really know which direction to look in to find her way out. She wanted to scream for help but she didn't want to draw attention to herself- she was scared of what people would think. She thought she might be sick and she was sweating horribly and she couldn't get out but she also couldn't think. She was surrounded by people on all sides, she couldn't just leave the lesson but she was so acutely afraid of what would happen if she didn't that it only made her feel more terrified.

She shook in fear. She stopped breathing. She swayed on the spot.

While the class watched in rapture at the explosion of fire from the experiment, Matthew grabbed Mary's hand and used it to tug her out of the busy classroom and into the corridor outside.

She shivered and shook and she was unresponsive when he tried to ask her what he could do. One of his hands cupped her jaw and the pad of his thumb stroked gently over her cheek, trying to illicit a reply or response of some kind. It didn't work. His other hand shook her shoulder slightly. He was trying to get her to snap out of whatever trance was clouding up her eyes, and she wished she could snap out of it but she was too afraid. She was too horrified of the suffocating feeling that she was convinced was a heart attack. She didn't want this. She was embarrassed and ashamed and she just wanted to feel ordinary again.

"Mary, look at me," he pleaded, his voice soft and touch gentle as he sat her down on a staircase leading to the IT corridor. "Whatever it is, it's not real." He told her. "It's not real." He sat down next to her and linked their fingers in her lap. "You're alright. It's alright." He repeated the words over and over to her until she calmed.

Then, after a minute, she was not so terrified anymore. Then she just felt rather embarrassed.

"I'll get you a drink," he said, but she shook her head and didn't release his hands.

"Please just stay for a second." She said, the twist of vulnerability in her voice far more noticeable than she wanted it to be.

He sat back down and unclasped a hand to wrap an arm around her shoulders. She was irritated that it felt so good. That Matthew could sit there and make her feel better in a way she couldn't achieve by herself, and he was warm and solid and it felt safe.

But then he was Matthew who, although extremely popular, was her class rival from Manchester. The same Matthew who she has caught staring at her in PE, that side tapped her feet in Maths, that laughed with her in Geography. The same Matthew who could recite literature and identify any quote from any writer under the sun, who sat behind to her in English and wrote the most beautiful descriptive passages that he wouldn't let anyone read. The same Matthew who was star player in the first eleven cricket team, the rugby team and the football team. The same Matthew who was adored by a gaggle of girls that followed him everywhere to dote on his every word and action.

"Of course," he murmured, leaning his head atop hers resting on his shoulder. "Whatever you need."

Mary was not that girl.

She didn't need the help of others, she certainly didn't require any from him, and yet here she was, shaking in Matthew's arms ( _Matthew's arms_ ) while he went far beyond what anyone would have expected to help her through whatever this was.

"Thank you," she murmured, "for getting me out of there- I thought I was going to faint."

"It's no problem. You looked a bit overwhelmed so I thought..."

This was an understatement, a kind way of putting it because Mary knew she must have looked completely ridiculously terrified.

"Anyway," she sighed, "thank you."

He smiled squeezing her hands. "We should probably get up," he said, "the lunch bell is about to go."

"Oh yeah," she muttered, distractedly.

Matthew frowned, her unease fuelling his concern.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"The thought of eating lunch in all those crowds is a bit daunting to be honest."

She didn't know why she told him the truth. She just did.

"Well, you could eat with me? We could find somewhere else to sit." He suggested.

Then, certain she'd reject him, he backtracked. "If you want to." He added. "You don't have to or anything- it's just a thought."

"Are you sure? I don't want to tear you away from your friends."

Matthew laughed. "I'm sure they won't miss me for one lunch time."

It wasn't just one lunch time.

So, it might've started with lunch.

Whatever it started with, it continued with a friendship.

It would be lying if Matthew were to say she was ever simply his best friend. His thoughts toward her were never as platonic as he tried to pretend, and, as far as he tried to push it down into him, there came a point where he began to accept it. He loved her, and there was no running from that now. He would not tell her- he would much rather keep her as his best friend than lose her as the girl he loved- and he had come to terms with that fact. It was the only secret he kept from her, and that was simply the way it was. It didn't stop his mind wandering. Sometimes he'd just glance at her, watch her smile at a book or laugh at a joke and wander what it would be like just to kiss her. But he'd shake the thought, reminding himself that she was his friend and that was all he'd ever be to her. A best friend, a close friend, but a friend none the less.

"Matthew, could you pass the water?"

Mary's voice snapped him out of his reverie and he looked up sharpish. His mother looked at him, exasperated at his momentary spark of mental absence from the dinner table, but when he saw his father, he noticed a curious and yet knowing glint in his blue eyes. Mary just rolled her eyes, tossing her hair back and smiling indulgently as Matthew took the jug and poured her a glass of water.

By fifth year, it had become more of a surprise if Mary didn't come around for dinner at least twice a week. It had become customary that either Isobel or Reginald cooked enough food for four, or only enough for two if Matthew had disappeared off to Mary's after school.

"How is the English preparation coming along, Mary?" Reginald asked. He liked Mary, where his wife took his son's relationship with the girl at face value: a friendship, Reggie surmised that there was something more. Although it wasn't his business to meddle, he liked to observe interactions between the pair of them- confirming his suspicions in such solidity that he wondered why no one else could see it.

"Alright, I think," she nodded. "Although I may need a little help with a particular section of the Shakespeare. It's quite difficult to get to grips with sometimes."

"Well, I'd be glad to have a look at it after dinner if you like." Reginald suggested. He assisted her with her English course work often, as Shakespeare was a particular passion of his and he was (silently) rather disappointed that Matthew had not chosen it as A-level to follow into his footsteps. But Matthew's enthusiasm lay in History, Politics and Philosophy and he found this admirable, pleased that his son had discovered his own interests.

Mary smiled, glad of the help he offered.

"Thank you."

"I see I'm being abandoned again in favour of your conversations about Oscar Wilde." Matthew laughed, fully aware that, once Mary and his father began talking about literature, it would be a long time before she emerged from their sitting room. He didn't mind really, liking that she got on well with his parents just as he did with Robert and Cora, no matter how intimidated he'd been at first, but he enjoyed joking about it- occasionally asking Mary who she liked more, him or his father.

Reginald laughed as Mary rebuffed Matthew's statement, making a playful response that the conversations about Oscar Wilde were the soul reason for her visits, placing a hand to his chest and laying his fork down atop his plate, barely touched.

"How's dear Sybil?" Isobel asked affectionately. "I haven't seen her since she made a rebellion against the traces and decided to switch schools. Is she happy?"

Mary huffed, looking pointedly at Isobel as if to say it was a sore subject amongst her parents, yet one she found inherently amusing.

"She's enjoying it immensely," Mary answered, "Much to Mama and Papa's distaste." She laughed for a second then added, "she wants to take Drama GCSE, which of course Granny doesn't care for."

Matthew tittered, more than familiar with Violet Crawley's distaste for the untraditional.

* * *

Somewhere along the line they hit the part that got difficult, and, supposedly, that started with Kemal.

Having a boyfriend was, at first, exhilarating for Mary. Kemal was a year older than her and therefore seemed somewhat more exciting than the boys her own age. He was popular and desired and had large groups of friends that hung out in the wreckage of the old castle on the outskirts of the village. They used to go up there in groups after school, smoking and drinking and starting bonfires and it had been thrilling and new and exciting. He was possessive in the face of the other boys that flirted with her, and although this rebelled against her principles and didn't sit straight with her characteristics, a part of her thought it was elating- a simple aspect that came with having a boyfriend. But, in time, it came to irritate her. Despite all the time he had monopolised from Matthew and her other friends, it dawned on Mary that she didn't actually have much in common with Kemal. He was attractive, yes, but he was uninteresting and uninterested in her. His possessive qualities led to him being demanding, oppressive and often outrageously ill-tempered, and, having distanced herself on his request in the time they'd been together, when Mary found herself feeling strangely vulnerable she was left with no one to talk to. The nature of her relationship with Kemal hadn't included anything but recklessness and attraction, talking to him about her feelings seemed absurd, and when she found out he'd been also seeing some older girl behind her back, she didn't feel angry or sad so much as simply lonely.

She tried to seek Matthew out at school, but found him playing football with a bunch of his other friends and decided dejectedly not to interfere. It wasn't that she thought he'd mind, or that she particularly cared about spoiling their game, but more that she felt it unfair to suddenly drag him away from his friends after barely spending any time with him since the arrival of her new- now ex- boyfriend. Instead, she went home, her thoughts and feelings warring with each other the entire journey.

When she arrived, Sybil was already back from school, sitting distractedly at the bottom of the stairs, seemingly waiting for Mary's return. She leapt up when Mary came in through the entrance hall, running over to her eldest sister and hugging her tightly round the middle. She only found out later that her Papa had left their nanny in charge of the three girls for the night, while he stayed with their Mama in the hospital.

She'd had a miscarriage. And Mary felt awful. She didn't eat much dinner, but then neither did Edith or Sybil, and they all went to bed as soon as darkness fell, not feeling particularly up to sitting in heavy silence for any longer than they had to. Sleep evaded her, plagued by guilts and doubts and nerves, it didn't take her long to reach for her phone on her bedside table, flicking through her contacts to find the only person she trusted to listen and talk honestly.

Matthew.

But when it came to it, she couldn't press the call button. She didn't know why, she knew Matthew would be kind, that his voice alone would help, but she couldn't do it and instead she threw off the bedcovers and got dressed, throwing caution to the wind and going out on a walk to clear her mind.

She didn't really know where she was going; all she knew was that she needed to get away.

It wasn't an entirely new occurrence for Mary– the whole running away thing. She'd freeze up and leave for a couple of hours to run away from her problems. She wasn't sure what she was feeling in that moment. Lonely? Probably. She'd accidentally distanced herself from her friends. Sad? Yes, she'd been told by her father that she would've had a baby brother and that had made her insides twist more than anything. That only made her feel more alone, and by the time she got to her destination, she had no idea she was going there in the first place.

When she walked passed the churchyard to where the entrance to Matthew's house stood, she felt a whole myriad of confusion as to why her legs had led her there without herself realising. Stepping up through the gate she swallowed, sighing deeply.

She knew why she had come there but at the same time she didn't, so she paused before reaching for her phone in her pocket, staring at the warm glow of light in the attic room window. " Her mind screamed at her, yet she made no move to walk back home. It was past midnight by now, her wanderings around the village having wiled away the hours she should have been asleep, and she really ought to leave, but she _couldn't._ It was weird and stupid, but she just couldn't.

She pulled out her phone, silencing whatever voices in her head that were telling her to stop.

 _Are you up?_

He replied almost immediately.

 _Yes, are you alright?_

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and moved through the garden to stand on their back doorstep.

 _Open your garden door?_

He didn't reply to her text and for a minute she thought he might've thought she'd been joking, but a second later she heard a clicking of locks and he opened the door looking tired and rather confused.

"Mary?" Matthew, completely surprised, let her into the house immediately and ushered her through the large kitchen into the warmer hall.

"Look at you, coming to my house in the middle of the night. I knew you were a romantic at heart," he joked, only to notice that she didn't respond the way she usually did to his silly remarks (an eyebrow raise, an eye roll, or occasionally both). He guided her to the sofa in his drawing room, and turned one of the low lamps on while she curled up with her knees to her chest, letting the numbness succumb her as he sat down gently by her side.

She bite her lip, willing herself not to cry in front of him. "To tell the truth," she started, "I'm not entirely sure why I'm here. Only that I don't want to go home and I don't really have anywhere else to go." She paused, gulping. "I'm sorry. It's so late. I should go back…"

"Don't be silly." He interrupted. "It's late and dark and cold. You can stay here."

"Are you sure?" she questioned, "Wouldn't your parents mind?"

He nods, confusion written all over his face. "They're asleep. And anyway, they adore you."

She smiled at the comment. "Thank you," she managed to say, hoping her heart would stop beating so ridiculously fast. She squeezed her eyes shut and went through the events of the day.

Her aggressive boyfriend was cheating on her. Her Mama had suffered a miscarriage. She'd lost her baby brother.

"Are you alright? Do you want to talk about it?" He offered after a few minutes of silence.

She scanned his face, full of concern and care and something else that she couldn't quite manage to fully comprehend, before opening her mouth.

"I just... I didn't realize that I was coming over here until I found myself at your door. I'm so sorry, I really should leave. It's late and we've got school tomorrow–"

She got up to leave, shaking her head to keep him from seeing the tears in the corners of her eyes, when stopped her by gently reaching out for her hand.

"Mary, wait," he pleaded softly, not letting go of his tender grip on her hand. "Don't go. I can see that you're not ok, and I'm worried. It's alright if you don't want to talk about it. I just want to know that you're safe. It's alright, I really don't mind if it's late, neither will mum or dad."

She stared silently at him, unsure of what to say or do. Instead, she just nodded quietly and sank back onto his warm sofa, their fingers still interlocked together.

"Thank you, Matthew."

He studied her carefully, concerned with her strangely subdued behaviour. She wasn't usually like this, so despondent and lacking in confidence. Her posture was never so slackened, her resolve never so disconsolate. She was Lady Mary Crawley, she was strong and independent and secretive.

In the long moment that they sat in complete silence, he noticed the delicate way her elegant fingers played with the sleeve of her cotton top. He noticed how her dark eyes never moved to glance up from her lap. He noticed how her normally focused countenance seemed to intensify as she became more and more engulfed in her own mind.

Staring at her in the dim lighting and near darkness, it dawned upon him how so suddenly fragile and vulnerable she appeared. Her tough exterior and cold elusion had cracked right before his eyes, and he had no idea what to do.

"Do you need anything? Would you like a glass of water?" He suggested slowly, breaking the calm silence.

Her lips parted briefly, her hair fell about her face and she neglected to tuck it out of the way, but instead of saying anything, she shook her head.

He nodded, squeezing her hand gently and stroking his thumb carefully over hers.

"I'll make up one of the guest beds. The heating hasn't been on in there and I'm afraid I don't have much in the way of thick quilts but there are some spare blankets from my bed if you want them and I can lend you some pyjamas if you–"

"You're rambling," she interrupted, turning to lock eyes with him and smiling slightly at his shy expression. "You should get some sleep," she said, "I shouldn't have woken you like this, but I can make up the bed myself. Thank you, again Matthew."

He nodded, not expecting the offer of a hug she gave him in the form of her open arms. It felt good though, holding her tightly against his chest, breathing in the sweet scent of her hair. It felt so fantastically right.

Mary found herself sat on the recently made bed in the guest room below Matthew's. The sheets were clean, crisp and smooth beneath her fingers and the pyjamas she wore, though fresh from the wash, smelt of him which was perhaps eminently more comforting than she was prepared to admit.

She struggled to find a comfortable position on the mattress, it's wasn't uncomfortable, far from it, but the thoughts that prevented her from slumber earlier were still fresh in her mind and they mulled over unwillingly in her head as she tossed and turned to shake the uncomfortable twisting feeling from her stomach.

She tried taking her mind off everything by mentally planning how she'd take the next day. She was certain she'd completed any work that was due in the next day, so school should be relatively relaxed, other than the buzzing gossip from her recent break-up. She thought she might take the decision into her own hands and take the day off tomorrow to visit her Mama in hospital, or sit with her at home if she was back by then.

It suddenly hit her once again that she was in bed in Matthew's house, Isobel and Reggie asleep on the floor below and Matthew probably asleep on the floor above. That she was there because her Mama lost her baby, Mary's own baby brother, and the thoughts were rotated on a cycle that she couldn't manage to end.

She threw the covers off and moved silently across the hall, her feet padded gently on the carpeted stairs and her hand glided along the banister that led to the attic. It was freezing, and she shivered and stopped outside Matthew's door, feeling somewhat strange standing there when he could well be fast asleep inside.

With a tentative knock, she waited for it to be followed with either a response or silence. The former, rather than the latter, came only seconds later.

"Is everything alright?" He blinked tiredly, opening the door for her nonetheless and stepping aside.

"Can I talk to you about something?" Mary asked, slightly anxiously.

His hand reached for hers, which she took gratefully. He led her to the edge of his messy bed, and the two of them sank comfortably into soft covers.

"Anything," his gentle voice assured.

"My Mama was pregnant."

"I heard about that," he admitted.

She nodded. "Yes, well, I was so angry about it at first and I'm not entirely sure why. Edith and I have never exactly been close, but we both love Sybil and everyone says that, when an age gap is bigger, siblings are more likely to get along, but I felt so terrified at the idea."

"It's ok, Mary. It's a massive change and, honestly, it would be weirder if you didn't feel strange at the idea."

"It scared me. The new baby would've been so much younger than me and the prospect of another sibling threw me off a bit. I don't know what another baby would mean. We already have a nanny that steps in when Mama is busy and Papa's on business, but a new baby would've meant we would see them less and their attention would be focussed on them rather than their other children," she added reluctantly, but he reassured her to keep going by squeezing her hand. "Especially if it was a boy."

"That's not true. I don't think your parents would be changed by another child- I especially don't think that the sex would determine their attentions," he said quietly. "A new baby will always mean that parents' focus is concentrated on them, but eventually things would get back to normal and they certainly wouldn't love you or your sisters any less."

"But that's just it," Mary croaked, her voice suddenly more uneven. "They will love me less, because Mama lost the baby and it's all my fault."

Matthew gulped. He had no idea Cora had miscarried, and suddenly a lump arose in his throat in sympathy for his best friend. It was a lot for him to take in, and his eyebrows furrowed, wondering how on earth any of it could be her fault.

His arm wrapped around her shoulders as she blinked away the tears that sprang to her aching eyes. He rubbed a palm over her arm and pressed a kiss to her hair as she laid her head on his shoulder.

"What can you mean by that?" he asked quietly.

"I wished it away," she gasped. "I wished she wasn't pregnant. I wished that I wouldn't get another sibling and now I won't. I killed my baby brother…"

"No, you didn't," he interrupted tenderly. "This isn't your fault. You can't blame yourself for this." He held her slightly tighter. Mary had never entertained beliefs in any kind of conspiracy, she was agnostic about god, and wasn't one to put much stoke into prayer, and yet now somehow, she thought a simple hasty wish she'd made in a moment of confusion had effected the birth of her brother.

"I'm such a selfish idiot."

"You're not a selfish idiot."

She fell silent. He leaned his head against hers where it lay on his shoulder. He wanted her to stay. He wanted to be allowed to sleep with her in his arms. But he didn't voice this, instead suggesting that they both get some sleep.

He walked her down the stairs and back to her room, pulling her into a warm embrace at the door. Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around him and pressed an ear to his chest, listening to the fast thumps of his heart. She mumbled one last thank you, eyes closed, savouring the closeness of everything, as he stroked her hair soothingly. He worked up the courage to press a warm kiss on her temple, positive that she was half-asleep in his arms.

"Goodnight," she mumbled in the darkness, already regretting the lack of warmth hitting her skin from when she moved away. She wished she hadn't.

"Goodnight, Mary."

* * *

The difficulty didn't end there, only this time there was no build up.

Matthew had walked her home that day. They'd laughed at their mad new Geography teacher and he'd bought her a large portion of chips from the strange little fish shop on the corner, chuckling in disbelief when she admitted that she'd never eaten them straight from the bag before.

 _"Go on, Lady Mary, use your fingers, I dare you."_

 _Matthew grinned as Mary delicately reached into the bag and nibbled at a greasy chip._

 _"See," he pointed out, "It's not that bad."_

 _She rolled her eyes, laughing as she continued to eat._

He'd stayed at hers for a while, watching TV with her and Sybil, with Mary's legs strewn carelessly over his lap, before his mother called him, requesting his presence at home. She'd refused to move her legs, staying stoic and stationary until he began to tickle her feet mercilessly, tittering slightly while she giggled and writhed on top of him, begging him to stop through her laughter.

He eventually did, pulling himself up from the comfortable sofa and kissing Mary's cheek in goodbye, waving to Sybil and stepping out of the room with a smile still worn on his bright features.

And that's when the call had come. That was when he'd told her.

 _Mary, my dad is dead._

Which brought her back to the here and now.


End file.
